


to be a star is to burn

by i_wont_fall_asleep



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Also there is some swearing but Yurio is young and Russian so it's fine, Alternate Universe, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Families are embarrassing, M/M, Pre-Slash, Viktor is a lot dramatic which isnt, Yakov is tired, Yurio is a secret Yuuri fanboy, Yuuri is a bit cold which is new, rivals au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-18 03:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9366875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_wont_fall_asleep/pseuds/i_wont_fall_asleep
Summary: There was just something about the skater that always got under Viktor’s skin, that had him itching, and what was worse was that Yuuri seemed to know it. He seemed to be able to look through Viktor and within a second pinpoint every flaw, fear, and anxiety. It grated on him, especially as Viktor was known for his feather-light disposition and natural confidence. Yuuri’s endless brown eyes always seemed to be appraising Viktor, and something in the set of Yuuri’s jaw made Viktor feel like he failed the assessment somehow.-Or the one in which Viktor and Yuuri are not coach and student, but rivals.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> no proofreading, we post garbage like men

Unless Viktor Nikiforov was being held under extreme circumstances of duress, such as torture or practicing endless runs with his coach, Yakov, shouting at him, he would never admit to the amount of sheer skill, beauty and grace Katsuki Yuuri possessed gliding across the ice. The man, Yuuri, four years younger than Viktor, skated his free program to a jumpy pop ballad, his body seeming to translate the music into something tangible making it available to the arena’s captivated audience—who were eating the performance up, if the cheers and shamelessly shouted declarations of love were anything to go by.

One of the commentators spoke up just as Yuuri completed a successful combination jump, “Yuuri Katsuki, a seasoned skater at this point in his career, has set up the majority of his jumps for the second half in an effort to up the difficulty and his overall technical score.”

“The song makes sense, huh?”

Viktor turned to see Yuri Plisetsky lounging over the rink’s walls, eyes tracking Yuuri’s movements on the ice with something akin to devotion.

“Huh?”

Yuri growled; he hated repeating himself, “Katsuki’s song, it makes sense considering all his jumps are planned for the second half, no?”

Viktor paused, listening as the singer belted about having incredible bouts of stamina and being the greatest.

His face scrunched up as if he had just bitten something sour, “A little on the nose though. I would have gone for something more subtle.”

“Oh my god, Viktor, you’re such a pretentious asshole.” The teenager rolled his eyes.

“And with that,” the announcer’s voice boomed, “Yuuri Katsuki has successfully nailed all of his jumps. He is looking at a very high score, not that anyone here tonight would be surprised.”

Viktor turned his attention back to the ice were Yuuri was finishing his combo-spin just as the music ended, the sound replaced by deafening and vicious applause. He bowed and gathered a few plushies and a bouquet before making his way over the Kiss-and-Cry box to sit with his coach to hear the results.

“You’re blinded by your obsession with Katsuki, Yurio. How many posters do you have of him on your walls? I think it was fifteen the last time I was in there, but that was ages ago, so probably more, right?” Viktor tilted his head, “So you have a biased opinion on this.”

Yuri blushed angrily at the mention of his posters, “Fuck you, Viktor, just because you-”

“After deliberation, the judges’ score for Yuuri Katsuki’s free skate are 168.23 bringing his total score to 312.2, breaking both the world record and Katsuki’s personal best.”

Yuuri jumped up and hugged his coach, while the arena got impossibly rowdier.

“The previous record, of 309.15, was held by Russian skater, Viktor Nikiforov. It was made at last year’s Grand Prix wherein Nikiforov took home the gold leaving Katsuki with silver. Nikiforov is scheduled to perform next, and his performance will have to be stellar if he hopes to outrank Katsuki, who is currently in first place.”

Viktor scoffed, “It will be more than stellar, it’ll be better than anything that Katsuki could hope of achieving.”

Yuri looked like he was about to defend his idol, when a movement caught his eye, causing him to whisper in a panic, “Viktor, holy shit, I think Katsuki is coming over here.”

Viktor glanced up, and sure enough the Japanese skater, dressed in his silver and nearly-black navy costume was making his way to where Viktor and Yuri were standing. Which was odd considering they never really—

“Nikiforov.”

“Katsuki.”

Yuuri paused, eyes flicking briefly toward Yuri, “You’re Plisetsky, right? You just finished gold in the juniors.”

Yuri preened and nodded.

“Will you be competing in the seniors’ next season?”

“That is the plan, yeah.” Yuri nodded again, like an over-eager pet.

Yuuri flashed a smile, rare for him as he mostly scowled or looked far too serious, “Good. It’d be nice to finally get some real competition from Russia.”

At this Viktor scoffed, “What is that supposed to mean?”

Yuuri’s smile turned mocking, “Oh Viktor, while I have enjoyed our little back and forth, I’m worried that it won’t be enough, especially as you are getting on in your old age.”

Viktor gasped and Yurio snickered. _Traitor_.

“How dare yo-”

But Yuuri cut him off, whispering in a conspirator’s tone, “Don’t worry, your thinning hair isn’t that noticeable.”

Viktor felt his soul detach from his corporal form.

Yuuri’s comment about Viktor’s age was a low blow, but everyone knew you didn’t make fun of his _hair_.

He put on his fakest nice smile and tilted his head, “That’s so nice of you to say, considering I assumed you’d be too focused on all that weight you’ve gained! It’s a wonder you even managed to fit in your costume.”

Katsuki’s feature’s noticeably darkened, which made Viktor thrum happily because if you didn’t make comments about Viktor Nikiforov’s hair, you most certainly never said anything about Katsuki Yuuri’s weight, which was known to fluctuate, a telltale sign of the skater’s stress levels.

“Strong words from the man whose record I just bested.”

Viktor shrugged, although that fact did bother him, “I’ll just make sure to make a new one tonight.”

Yuuri laughed all smug arrogance, cocking his hip and folding his arms, “You’re getting old and run down, Nikiforov. Everyone knows it. You’re time in the sun is coming to a close and I for one cannot wait to watch you fall into the shadows.”

Viktor bristled and stepped forward into Katsuki’s space. Viktor was a few centimeter’s taller than him, but that didn’t mean much as Yuuri was still wearing his skates. The two stared one another down, and had Yakov not come at that exact moment to yell at Viktor for not being ready yet, Viktor isn’t sure he wouldn’t have done something.

As Yakov pulled Viktor away, berating him, he looked back at where Yuuri was talking with another skater, and felt his blood boil all over again. Fuck Katsuki Yuuri for being such an egotistical asshole.

Ever since Yuuri joined the senior division, earning gold at the Grand Prix his first year, the two of them had always been less than friendly. If Viktor was a more dramatic man, he might’ve used the term “enemies” or “rivals” (which he was, so he often did, much to Yurio’s vexation).

There was just something about the skater that always got under Viktor’s skin, that had him itching, and what was worse was that Yuuri seemed to _know_ it. He seemed to be able to look through Viktor and within a second pinpoint every flaw, fear, and anxiety. It grated on him, especially as Viktor was known for his feather-light disposition and natural confidence. Yuuri’s endless brown eyes always seemed to be appraising Viktor, and something in the set of Yuuri’s jaw made Viktor feel like he failed the assessment somehow.

Which was a ridiculous notion, considering that Viktor had won more gold medals than Yuuri (only by one, a voice sounding suspiciously like Yurio’s offered) and had achieved adoration and notoriety throughout the skating world.

Viktor finished lacing his skates and stood up, making his way toward the rink’s opening and out onto the ice. He would show Katsuki, he wasn’t done and out—sure, he was a little older than some of the skaters, but that didn’t mean he still didn’t have powerful, stunning stories left the skate.

He would break Yuuri’s record, win gold, and prove to that arrogant dickhead he, Viktor Nikiforov, was still one of the best figure-skater’s the world had ever seen.

*

He lost. By less than a point, Viktor lost to Katsuki Yuuri.

Standing on the podium, the silver medal around his neck felt more like lead, and Viktor remembered why he hated this part. How cruel it was to force him to stand next to Yuuri, who was currently stone-faced and waving to the crowd, the yellow and purple flower crown placed on his slicked-back black locks, while the glimmering gold medal hung around his neck.

Christophe, who had ranked third with the bronze, was on Yuuri’s other side, smiling and blowing kisses to the cameras, the Swiss flag waving around in his free hand. Viktor grinned finally, happy for his friend, and remembering the bright red flag in his own hand, he thrust it up into the air. He may not have placed first but that didn’t mean he _lost_.

He had all of next season to dominate the competitions and utterly decimate Yuuri Katsuki, the thought of which pulled Viktor’s grin even wider.

He would enjoy tonight, and have fun with his friends at the banquet, showing of his medal because if there was another truth in the skating world, it was that Viktor wore silver like it was better than gold.

“Nikiforov.”

Viktor tilted his head up (damn the podiums’ height difference’s) and quirked a brow at Yuuri.

“Just remember, I’ve always loved watching sunsets.”

Viktor scowled, turning away. Katsuki was without a single doubt one of the worst people he had ever met.

Which is why he let out a horrified screech when he read the email on his phone from the ISU public relations representative the following morning:

_Dear Mr. Nikiforov,_

_As one of the International Skating Union’s Senior Men’s Division best figure skater’s we thought it best to reach out to you on a campaign our organization is currently working on to improve the image of the ISU MD._

Viktor thought for a moment of what could need improving when he remembered JJ’s drunken video of him mocking his fans that had leaked last year, and Georgi’s arrest a few months ago for egging his ex-girlfriend’s house after a bad break up. So maybe a little PR would be a good idea, although the sentiment changed as Viktor continued reading:

_The ISU MD will be holding a touring exhibition across several nations as a show of good faith and a chance for our best skaters to interact with their devoted fans, who, without, none of this would be possible. The tour will of course be before the start of next season as to not interfere with any training schedules._

_If you should accept, you would be planning and choreographing the main components of the program with this year’s Grand Prix gold medalist, Katsuki Yuuri, as both of you are the top skaters of your division._

Viktor threw his phone on the bed, pulling his pillow over his face to scream his frustrations into. There was no way he could refuse, not only would Yakov actually murder him if he tried, but Viktor wasn’t dumb or naïve enough to think the ISU’s email was anything less than a demand.

This whole situation was completely awful because if it had just been Viktor to be asked, or had been paired with any other skater, this would have been deeply flattering and pretty exciting—but it wasn’t any other skater that he was supposed to be working with, it was Katsuki.

“My nemesis.” Viktor whispered into his pillow, “How am I expected to create an inspiring and breathtaking exhibition with someone like him?”

His phone vibrated from where it was laying next to him, a text from Yurio asking why he wasn’t down in the lobby yet to leave. Viktor huffed a sigh, copy and pasting the email’s contents to Yuri, with a follow-up message explaining he would never leave the bed again.

The response was a series of crying-laughing emojis. Yurio was terrible and for being Viktor’s supposed protégé he was awfully cruel to his mentor a lot.

His phone rang and this time it was Yakov demanding him to get his ass down there and what was all this talk of an exhibition with Katsuki?

Viktor hung up with a dejected sigh but got up nonetheless, packing his suitcases and getting ready in some sweats and his favorite jacket, his Olympic team windbreaker, his thoughts busy considering the next few months.

 The email said that he would have a week or so before him and Yuuri were expected to start planning for the seven-week long tour, spanning across North America, Europe and Asia. They had five weeks for preparation before they had their first show in New York. It was a lot to fit in such a short time, but it was an exciting challenge.

He hadn’t said anything, but lately Viktor hadn’t felt that spark that had originally drew him to figure skating in the first place. People always expected either he or Yuuri to win, and lately that had become a stale routine—there was no surprise anymore. This exhibition had potential to solve that problem and maybe give Viktor his inspiration back.

Not only was it an intense time crunch, but it required Viktor and Yuuri to choreograph and assign programs for the top twelve or so skaters in the Senior Men’s Division, meaning they had to play up to the wildly differing strengths of each, as well as create a tremendous finale that would feature all of them. It would be tough but as long as he didn’t have to be too much in Katsuki’s proximity, it’d be fine.

However, the universe loves to laugh at Viktor and right at that moment he was sent a second email from the ISU:

_Also, Mr. Nikiforov, it would be ideal if you and Mr. Katsuki could choreograph a pair skate as a highlight of the tour._

After throwing his phone at the wall, Viktor debated crawling back under the covers but the prospect of a raging Yakov propelled Viktor down to the lobby where the small group of Russian skaters were waiting.

Upon seeing his dejected face, Yuri broke out into laughter.

“This is so great; I can’t believe you’re going to be a dancing monkey because of Leroy and Popovich.”

“Yurio,” Viktor smiled, though not kindly, “You do realize as you are now officially registered in the Senior Division, you’ll be a dancing monkey as well, right?”

At this the blood drained from the teenager’s face, “No way.”

“Yes way,” Yakov interrupted, “I just received an email asking if you and Viktor would be able to participate in the exhibition.”

Yurio fumed, “Did you tell them there is no way in hell-”

“I told them,” Yakov eyed the boy sternly, “that you both were honored and delighted to be considered and that of course you would offer yourselves in anyway required.”

The sputtering coming from Yurio was enough to make Viktor stop pouting and throw his head back in laughter, instead.

“Nikiforov.”

Viktor turned, schooling his features into something neutral, “Katsuki.”

Even in his blue and clear framed glasses, Yuuri’s eyes were intense, “I assume you received the same email as I did this morning, yes?”

Viktor nodded.

“I have to be in Japan for a bit. Would it be alright with you if we started the planning there?”

He was about to protest when Yurio elbowed him, hard, in the side.

“No…problem.” Viktor wheezed.

For a moment Yuuri seemed, relieved? A small smile quirked at the corner of his lips, before it flattened itself out once more.

“Thank you. Until then.” Katsuki bowed minutely and walked away with his coach.

“Okay what the hell was that for?” Viktor whirled on his rink mate, “I think you bruised my ribs, Yurio.”

The boy seemed more thoughtful than usual, “I’m not sure, as most of it is just rumors, but I think Katsuki’s mom is really sick right now.”

Viktor’s face must have showed his confusion as to what the relevance of this was to him being maimed, because Yuri huffed and continued.

“The reason he wants to work in Japan, you idiot, he wants to be close in case anything happens.”

Yuuri was an intensely private person, so it was suspect Yurio would have this type of information, “Where did you hear this?”

Yurio shrugged, “Skaters talk. I heard from Minami at the Cup of China this year saying he overheard Katsuki talking to his dad on the phone.  It sounded pretty serious, since his parents weren’t going to be able to make the trip to cheer him on.”

Viktor remembers sitting on his bed and watching a livefeed of that cup, a necessary qualifier for the Grand Prix. Yuuri had seemed different, simultaneously more careless and intense. He stepped out of a jump or two, but his perfect footwork, which he was notorious for, kept him comfortably in the top three, earning silver.

Watching his retreating back, Viktor noticed the deep lines of tension Katsuki held in his shoulders, the way in which his fists clenched and unclenched in repetition. Viktor always thought it was strange, how stark the distinction this Yuuri was from the one he studied on the ice. Day and night. It was different from how Viktor viewed himself when he skated, as if it was a mere extension of who he was.

But for Yuuri it was different, a letting go, a release. More so, a change, each program a rapid and enthralling metamorphosis taking place right before one’s eyes.

The next few months were going to be interesting to say the least. Although, Viktor had a strange sensation, he wouldn’t be the same after it was all over.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri Katsuki was absolutely fucked. Which is what he was trying to stress to Phichit, whose laughter was ringing through the speaker of his cell phone that he had tucked between his shoulder and ear as he folded laundry.
> 
> “Phichit,” Yuuri whined, “I am absolutely fucked and as one of my best friends, you shouldn’t be laughing at me!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for all the lovely commentors who asked for more
> 
> also yuuri is just as dramatic as viktor i love them
> 
> and yes this is still trash

Yuuri Katsuki was absolutely fucked. Which is what he was trying to stress to Phichit, whose laughter was ringing through the speaker of his cell phone that he had tucked between his shoulder and ear as he folded laundry.

“Phichit,” Yuuri whined, “I am absolutely fucked and as one of my best friends, you shouldn’t be laughing at me!”

The Thai skater just continued his snickering over the line, giving Yuuri time to finish up and place the piles into their designated drawers. After an immeasurably long flight, Yuuri was back home at his family’s onsen, although he never felt settled unless all of his stuff was unpacked and put away.

“I’m sorry, Yuuri, but you have to admit that this is pretty hilarious.” His friend snorted.

“No, no I do not because it isn’t!” Yuuri threw himself on his bed, “I can’t believe this.”

“Oh c’mon, it’s not that bad.”

Yuuri laughed without any humor, “Really? I’m supposed to plan and choreograph an entire exhibition for some of the world’s stop skaters with _Viktor Nikiforov_. And, oh yeah, I’m supposed to _pair skate_ with him on top of all that!”

“Yuuri, breathe!” Phichit demanded over the phone.

He did. In and out. Repeating the calming action for a minute before sighing.

“Good,” He could hear his friend’s smile through the phone, “Now, what’s the problem? Because it sounds to me that you’ve been given a killer opportunity and something that could be really fun.”

“I know, but, with Viktor?” Yuuri was whining again, “The guy hates me, Phichit.”

“And whose fault is that? You were the one who decided that acting like a robotic asshole to the guy would be a good idea, Yuuri.”

Yuuri pouted a bit, “I’m not an asshole.”

“I know,” Phichit’s tone kind and soft, “It’s just that you have a tendency to seem cold when you’re hyper-focused or anxious, but also you have always been pretty confrontational with Viktor.”

Yuuri thought back to the Grand Prix, of the weirdly intense and villainous-sounding speech he had given his Russian competitor, and the way he mocked Viktor on the podium. If Yuuri’s parents had heard him, he would’ve been smacked for being so rude. Speaking of his parents—

“You know why I do that.” Yuuri’s voice near a whisper.

“I know,” Phichit repeated, a little sad, “doesn’t mean it can’t suck though.”

He nodded, biting his bottom lip, “Yeah.”

They exchanged a few more pleasantries before saying goodbye and promising to talk as soon as their schedules allowed. Yuuri plugged his phone into its charger and rolled onto his side, staring out the window adjacent to the bed. It was early evening, and he was extremely jet-lagged, but didn’t feel sleepy. His mind was lost in thought.

The first time Yuuri had ever spoken to Viktor Nikiforov was before Yuuri’s first Grand Prix, at the end of the younger man’s debut season. Viktor had been a long-time idol of Yuuri’s, if the dozens of posters and merchandise filling his room were any indicator. The way Viktor told stories with his programs, so imaginative and deep, inspired Yuuri to do the same.

Watching Viktor on the ice was like watching physical poetry being written out, each stanza replaced with a well-executed Quad-Flip, every metaphor and simile turned into flawless footwork. It was breathtaking.

The man was more so in real life, standing like a colossus, straddling not only the skating world but Yuuri’s poor little heart. Viktor’s hair was still long and silky, strands of woven silver framing his arctic eyes. Yuuri remembered thinking he looked like the perfect picture of an icy, Russian prince.

Embarrassingly, Yuuri was so distracted that he ran smack into the other skater, nearly toppling them both to the ground. It was a sheer testament to their abilities as athletes that they regained their balance. Viktor’s firm steadying hand seared into Yuuri’s shoulder, despite the layer of sheer fabric separating them.

“Ah sorry!” Yuuri squeaked, bowing minutely.

“No problem, it happens!”

Yuuri was about to scurry away pathetically to go die in shame when Viktor eyed him, face brightening in recognition.

“Ah, you must be Katsuki Yuuri; this is your first season, right?” Viktor had smiled at him, had _known who he was_ , and Yuuri was gone, gone, gone.

“Uh, yeah, I am and, uh, this is.” Eighteen year old Yuuri had stuttered out, “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Nikiforov, truly.”

Viktor’s laugh sounded like those old church bells that rang in ancient cities, “Thank you, Yuuri. And please, call me Viktor, I am not that much older than you, yes?”

“Of course, Mr, uh I mean, Viktor.”

Viktor’s smile made the laughter lines around his eyes prominent, nearly sending Yuuri into cardiac arrest.

“My friend Chris showed me a video of your free program at the Rostelecom Cup and I had to say I was extremely impressed.” Viktor supplied.

Yuuri had to be dead, had died and ascended to heaven and god really was Viktor Nikiforov.

“Really?”

The older skater tilted his head, as if considering, “Maybe we can meet up at the banquet after all this and talk? I’d like to get to know a skater of such a caliber as yourself.”

Yuuri had nodded dreamily before being pulled away by Ciao Ciao to warm up.

Where Yuuri had fallen while practicing his Triple-Axel, a jump he was known for doing, and doing well.

 _What the hell?_ He recalled thinking; he hadn’t flubbed that jump in _years_.

Across the ice, Yuuri noticed Viktor staring at him, looking concerned.

“ _Davai_ , Yuuri!” Viktor shouted at him.

Yuuri nearly tripped.

He felt his cheeks heat up as the other skater’s looked intrigued at who was causing the legendary Viktor Nikiforov to yell during warm ups.

Yuuri just nodded at Viktor before racing off the ice, bypassing his coach in favor of sitting in one of the side stairwells. It was quiet, and the cold cement underneath him was grounding. He felt flushed, dually from his mistake and Viktor’s attention.

“Focus, Yuuri.” He softly hissed to himself, “You know what’s at stake here.”

And he did.

He had known for a long time that figure skating was expensive. The cost of lessons, equipment, and travel for competitions started to add up quickly, before Yuuri was even fifteen. His parents’ onsen hadn’t been doing so great in recent years and was in threat of having to be closed down, an idea that broke Yuuri’s heart. He wasn’t supposed to know but he had overheard his mom and dad arguing when they thought Mari and he were asleep.

Everything he had been earning was being sent back to them in hopes of keeping the place going, but a few Junior Division medals wasn’t the cash cow one would think, and so Yuuri moved to Detroit to train with Ciao Ciao. He always was at the rink earlier than the other skaters, and left long after everyone else was gone. He was going to earn that gold medal at the Grand Prix and use it to really help his family.

“Are you going to let all your work go down the drain because a pretty boy smiles at you, Katsuki?” He scolded himself.

Which, Viktor Nikiforov was infinitely more than _just_ a pretty boy—a man, really, but the point remained. Viktor would be a distraction, something that would cost time and his attention, neither of which Yuuri could afford.

More so, Viktor had heartbreak written all over him. Yuuri believed the other man would never do it on purpose, break his heart, but Viktor was a golden god, whereas Yuuri was a mere mortal who somehow tricked his way onto Mount Olympus. Yuuri was Yuuri, plain, neurotic, anxious, and could never dream to be enough for Viktor. Eventually he’d realize this and Yuuri would be stuck with a shattered heart.

So it went like this: Yuuri would seal up his glass heart behind glaciers and miles of ice against the warmth of Viktor, to protect himself and his career.

But Viktor was a stupidly wonderful and persistent human being, even after Yuuri claimed the gold—the first year in a while it wouldn’t go to Viktor. He squeezed a hug from Yuuri as the two stood on the podiums, side by side.

Then at the banquet he clung to Yuuri, casually touching his arm, his shoulder, leaning down do whisper in his ear and causing shivers to run up his body. The man was everywhere and all at once, a constant onslaught against the still-weak brick and cement of Yuuri’s defenses.

It all became too much when Viktor leant down, kissing Yuuri’s gold medal all while maintaining eye contact.

“Surely you know I only kiss gold, yes Yuuri?” Viktor grinned, faux-coy and a bit mischievous with a glimmer in his eyes.

 _This man will ruin me_ , Yuuri thought despairingly, _I will drown and burn and fall for him if I let myself._

So he didn’t.

The look on Viktor’s face when Yuuri had harshly ripped his medal away from the man’s mouth still churns Yuuri’s stomach when he recalls it.

“Well then maybe you should try earning your own, Nikiforov.” Yuuri had tried to school his features into something cocky, channeling  JJ to his best abilities, “Don’t smudge my gold; besides it makes you look desperate.”

“Yuuri?” Viktor was hurt, and the throng of skaters that had been standing around eying the pair wasn’t helping.

 _Be cruel and save yourself,_ He thought, _it’s for the best_.

Yuuri felt himself pull a snarky smile, “It’s a little sad, the way you drape yourself all over anyone with who takes the slightest bit of spotlight off of you.”

Viktor seemed stunned, “That’s not what—”

But Yuuri had just held up his hand, cutting him off, “Listen, you were great Nikiforov and the skating community owes you a lot, but you’re getting old and now you know you’re not the top skater anymore.”

The banquet hall went quiet.

“Is that so Katsuki?” The cadence was different from how Viktor had previously addressed him, haughty and condescending, “Because my four back-to-back gold medals would beg to differ.”

Yuuri took a deep breath, prepared to drive in the last nail in the coffin.

“But that silver one around your neck now just proves my point.” He commented unimpressed, pointing at the medal in question, “You’re a past tense, Nikiforov, a _has, a was, a used to be_.”

Viktor stepped into Yuuri’s space, his voice never anything less than pleasant but the words merciless:

“Listen, and listen good Katsuki Yuuri, I do not know where you learned your manners, but I hope the next time we meet on the ice, when I decimate you—because I will—you’ll know better than to mouth off to me. I have been winning longer than you’ve been skating and make no mistake, that will never change.”

Yuuri had been rendered silent; his eyes refusing to make contact before Viktor harshly pulled his chin up.

“Look at me when I speak to you, Katsuki, or else how do I know that you understand.”

The height difference in reality wasn’t tremendous, but at that moment Yuuri felt small and so very, very young.

Tearing himself away with a scoff, Yuuri had started to walk away before he turned around, and called Viktor’s name. He had come this far, might as well push it.

“Nikiforov, before the next Grand Prix, you may consider fixing that bald spot that’s coming in there.”  Yuuri offered, “Wouldn’t want everyone to finally realize how feeble you really are.”

Yuuri had shrugged nonchalantly before finally leaving the room, although he knew from the sound of a glass shattering and several horrified gasps that Yuuri had crossed some sort of invisible but very important line.

 _No going back now,_ he recalled thinking, his heart more than a little heavy.

Back in the present, the light outside was gone, save for the pale sliver of the moon that was visible through the trees’ branches.

Nearly four years ago Yuuri sent himself and Viktor down a trajectory of being the two most contentious people in figure-skating’s recent history. Team Yuuri and Team Viktor shirts were often seen worn in the audiences at competitions, and promotion for them always stemmed from their rivalry.

Two years back when Yuuri took first place in Moscow, Viktor’s territory, there were nearly riots outside the arena. The same thing tended to happen when their loyal fans felt the opposing skater had stepped on the toes of their idol.

It did wonders for their careers, especially as both pushed themselves to the ends of their capabilities just to beat the other. Ironically, Viktor was probably Yuuri’s life more so than if Yuuri had just quietly slipped off of the older man’s radar.

“So dramatic, sitting here in the dark.”

Yuuri shot up, “Mama, I didn’t know you were there.”

His mother leaned against the doorframe, “Of course you didn’t, lying on your bed staring at the moon all moody.”

Yuuri blushed, but smiled, “I’ve been told my moodiness is what makes my skating appealing, mama.”

She tsk’d, turning on his bedside lamp as she came to sit next to him on his bed.

“No, what makes your skating beautiful is the heart you put into it.” She pulled him to her, kissing his forehead, “I suppose that big heart is also why you’re sitting here moping, though.”

“I’m not moping!” He protested, his voice too high to his own ears to be believable.

“Is this about the exhibition Mari was telling me about?” She asked, “Because it doesn’t seem like something to be upset about, especially after you won that gold medal.”

“Did Mari tell you I’m supposed to be heading the exhibition with Viktor Nikiforov?”

The name didn’t have any effect on her.

Yuuri sighed, “The Russian skater?”

Her face finally lit up in recognition, “Oh, that pretty white boy whose posters you put on your walls?”

“Mama!” He screeched, “He’s my rival, remember?”

“Ah yes,” She nodded, side-eying him, “but I recall you being fairly in awe of him.”

“Well, he hates me so all that doesn’t matter anymore.” Yuuri continued when he saw her about to refute his words, “Besides, it’s for the best anyways—all that is, is unnecessary and unwanted distraction.”

This seemed to make her sad, her eyes going soft in the same way it used to when Yuuri would come home crying when the other children bullied him. It was something more honest and comforting than pity, yet more unnerving. He felt exposed.

She smoothed his hair back, tucking a piece behind his ear, “I worry about you, my son.”

“Mama…”

“You put so much of your heart and soul into skating; I fear there isn’t enough left for you or anyone else when you get off the ice.”

Yuuri didn’t know what to say to that. She wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t just Viktor he had sworn off, but all other potential love interests as well. It’s one of the main reasons nothing ever went anywhere with Yukko. More so, he didn’t have a wide circle of friends either, his family, Phichit and Minako being the full sum of his circle.

Phichit only because he was too kind and friendly for Yuuri’s cold demeanor to ever really deter him, and they bonded despite Yuuri’s wishes and them being competitors. He was thankful for his friendship, however, as he didn’t know if he’d have handled the past few years without Phichit’s companionship.

His mother coughed, deep and rattling.

“How are you, mama?” Yuuri asked when the hacking subsided.

She waved his worry off, “I’m fine, just a little cold.”

“Have you gone to the doctors?” He demanded, “How long have you had it?”

She rolled her eyes, “They said it was perfectly normal as the treatments make me more susceptible to getting sick, but I told you, I’m fine.”

Yuuri took in the sight of his mother, not sure whether to believe it. Her head was wrapped in a yellow and orange silk scarf that he had picked up for her abroad; her warm brown eyes, the ones everyone said he got from her, were bright but the bags underneath betrayed her exhaustion; her skin holding a sickly pale color.

Still, the truth was that he had seen her at worse; lying in a hospital bed, when the doctors were uncertain whether she’d make it through the night.

“I’m okay,” She promised, “Focus on your exhibition and leave the worrying to me. I’m your mother after all, it is our specialty.”

Yuuri smile ruefully but acquiesced with a small nod.

His mother stood up then with a small groan, the cracking of her back audible, “I should go finish up dinner.”

“Do you want any help?”

“No, Mari is already in there, probably wondering where I went off to.” She smiled, “I’m glad you’re home Yuuri, we’ve all missed you.”

He returned the smile, “Me too, mama.”

She shut his door, allowing him the privacy to flop back down on his bed after flipping off his lamp. The room was doused in darkness once more.

Sighing dejectedly, Yuuri scrolled through his Instagram feed, liking Phichit’s four new pictures he had posted since they hung up. An email notification popped up: _SENDER: Nikiforov, V;  SUBJECT: Skating Exhibition_

He groaned into his hands, before opening the message up. It was brief and professional, just explaining that he’d be in Hasetsu the following week to begin planning. He also asked if it’d be a problem to bring his protégé, Yuri Plisetsky, along as he felt it would be an important learning experience for the novice.

Yuuri didn’t mind the teenager, nicknamed the Russian Punk, who was known for being aggressive and a rising star skater. Besides, it might be nice to have a human buffer between him and Viktor for the next few weeks.

He sent a reply confirming their plans to use the local ice rink for the majority of practice. During the previous season, Yuuri had moved his home rink back to Japan when his mother was diagnosed, leaving behind Phichit and Ciao Ciao, to be trained solo and mostly informally by Yukko and Minako.

He also tacked on that of course it would fine for Yuri to come along, that there was plenty of room at the onsen for both of them, and pressed send.

Yuuri had only just locked his phone and put it down before it buzzed again. It was another email from Viktor:

_An onsen? Like in those anime shows?_

Yuuri laughed in surprise that Viktor even knew what anime was, although he suspected his knowledge probably came from Yuri, who seemed like he’d be a fan.

He typed up a quick reply and sent it:

_Yes, my family owns one. I don’t know how much it resembles what you’ve seen but I think it’s nice._

_Also, I guess I assumed you would be staying here, but if it’s a problem we can of course find you both accommodations elsewhere._

It was few minutes before his phone vibrated signaling a response:

_Your family’s place will be more than fine. Yurio and I both are excited—neither of us has been to one before!_

Yuuri felt his face flame up, his heart thumping at the prospect of Viktor Nikiforov looking forward to staying at his family’s hot springs. He locked his phone and shoved it under his pillow before he could send something stupid.

Yuuri groaned once more, the sound turning into a whine. He turned on his stomach, smooshing his glassed uncomfortably against his face.

He whispered to his dark room, voice muffled by the pillow, “I’m so fucked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i love pairings where one lets their self-hatred and duty get in the way of happiness and love
> 
> martyrs gotta love em, right?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor removed his sunglasses, placing an end piece in his mouth as he contemplated the building in front of him. It wasn’t as massive or gaudy as some of the places he had spent time in while traveling but it seemed warm, welcoming. A rather large sign was hanging from the roof, homemade most likely, as indicated by the child-sized handprints decorating it, that read “CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR GOLD MEDAL, YUURI!!!”.
> 
> He frowned minutely around the plastic; he couldn’t remember ever having more than a gruff pat on his back from Yakov as congratulations for winning, from anyone in his life.
> 
> -  
> Viktor and Yuuri arrive in Hasetsu and Yuuri's façade starts to crumble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly, thank you to you beautiful people who are leaving comments, kudos and bookmarking this it honestly inspires me.
> 
> also, can ya'll tell i love flowery, symbolic language too much?

Viktor removed his sunglasses, placing an end piece in his mouth as he contemplated the building in front of him. It wasn’t as massive or gaudy as some of the places he had spent time in while traveling but it seemed warm, welcoming. A rather large sign was hanging from the roof, homemade most likely, as indicated by the child-sized handprints decorating it, that read “ _CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR GOLD MEDAL, YUURI!!!”_.

He frowned minutely around the plastic; he couldn’t remember ever having more than a gruff pat on his back from Yakov as congratulations for winning, from anyone in his life.

“Are you going to just stand there all day or are we going in, dumbass?” Yuri prompted, obviously irritated.

“Patience is a virtue, Yurio.” Viktor sighed, stuffing the shades in his pocket, “One you need to work on.”

The boy snorted, “That’s funny coming from the guy who orders desert first because he doesn’t like waiting.”

Viktor was about to respond when a figure emerged from the building, a small, stout Japanese woman with a brightly-colored scarf tied around her head. Catching sight of them she smiled and waved them over.

“Hello!” She exclaimed, eyes bright behind her wire-rimmed glasses, “How can I help you? Do you have reservations?”

Viktor paused, unsure. After he had exchanged those surprisingly cordial emails with Katsuki, he just assumed the other skater would have taken care of everything, or been there to greet them at least. The most preparation Viktor had done was pack his suitcases and update his “Katsuki Yuuri is the worst human in existence” playlist on his phone to enjoy during the flight.

(When Yuri had found it on a previous occasion, utter loathing in his eyes, Viktor had easily explained that the playlist helped to inspire and motivate Viktor to destroy and humiliate Katsuki. Yurio had just huffed and called him lame. It was actually a really good playlist and most definitely not lame.)

“I’m not certain, really.” Viktor smiled sheepishly, “We’re here to meet with a Katsuki Yuuri; he said we would be able to stay here?”

“Oh Yuuri, yes he’s my son!” The older woman lit up at the mention of her child, “I’m sorry he’s not here right now; he’s at the rink right now.”

Viktor frowned, “Ah I see.”

She nodded knowingly, “It’s either there or Minako’s studio he goes when he’s anxious. It helps him to calm down.”

_Why would he be nervous?_ Viktor thought, confused.

“That must mean you’re Viktor,” She stated, eying him with an unnerving amount of interest, before turning to Yuri, “Although I’m not sure who you are, dear.”

“This is my protégé, Yuri Plisetsky.” Viktor flashed his best smile.

“I’m not your protégé, douche.” The boy grit out as he continued staring at his phone.

“Yurio!” He scolded, “Don’t be crass in front of Mrs. Katsuki!”

Yuri rolled his eyes, offering an insincere, “Sorry.”

She smiled softly before facing Viktor once more, “How about we get your things up to your rooms and then you can go join Yuuri?”

The trio made their way into the onsen that was affectionately named _Yu-Topia_ , styled classically and mirroring the ones Viktor had seen in the shows Yurio watched. The interior was just as inviting as the outside, all deep-colored woods and crème walls. Delicious scents drifted in from the kitchen, making Viktor’s mouth water a bit. In the main room were several guests perched around low-level tables, watching soccer on the mounted television.

Or the man was trying to watch soccer, save for an aggressive brunette who stole the remote control, threatening to shove it somewhere unpleasant if he changed the channel again. She flipped it to her intended station, displaying a recap of the Grand Prix Final.

The voice over was detailing the final rankings, the woman whooping enthusiastically when Katsuki’s winning free skate program filled the screen.

“That’s my boy Yuuri!” she shouted, “You kick that hot Russian’s ass!”

“Minako…” Yuuri’s mother hedged, looking embarrassed.

The brunette, Minako, just snorted and took a sip of her drink, “What? Hiroko, you knew how much work Yuuri put into that program, including the hours he spent pouring over Viktor’s old routines. Although between you and me I think after a while it wasn’t strictly for research if you get my drift.”

“Minako!” The older woman yelled, “Hush!”

“What is your deal, Hiroko? I’m just saying…”

Although what she was just saying died in her throat as Minako turned around, eyes going impossibly round in shock as she took in Viktor’s and Yuri’s presence.

“Oh shit.”

“Hi!” Viktor’s waved.

“Uh, what I meant is, um?” The woman stuttered before huffing in defeat, “Yuuri is going to kill me.”

Hiroko laughed nervously, turning toward a set of stairs, “Um, let’s get you two settled, okay?”

Viktor nodded, extending his arm indicating her to lead the way.

After dropping their things off in the two adjoining rooms—smaller than anything Viktor had roomed in since he won his first gold, although more comfortable then the myriad of impersonal hotels he had frequented in his travels—Hiroko gave them directions to the Ice Castle rink that Katsuki would be at, and where they would do a majority of their choreographing.

While Yurio went to the restroom before heading out, Viktor had a moment to pause and reflect on Minako’s interesting revelation. It made sense that Katsuki had studied some of Viktor’s old programs, as it was a common enough practice among skaters to do in order to understand who their competitors were, yet, it still surprised him.

Katsuki seemed at the best of times totally unimpressed with Viktor and at the worst, detested him. But spending hours, if Minako wasn’t exaggerating, told of something different. Plus, the end of her comment, of it not just being about research for Katsuki, but something else, had Viktor stumped.

“Oi, you ready?” Yuri called, kicking Viktor’s door open violently.

Shaken from his thoughts, Viktor just pointed at the younger skater in warning, “If you put holes in any of these doors kicking them open like a wild animal, you’re paying for it.”

*

The music softly playing in the rink was an instrumental piece Viktor was unfamiliar with, uncertain whether it was obscure or had been specifically composed for the Japanese skater who was running through a program on the ice. Viktor watched through the observation glass as Yuuri executed a perfect Triple-Axel that flowed into an immaculate step-sequence. The way his body moved to the music, as if it was translating the way it made Katsuki feel into something accessible for those watching would always make Viktor jealous.

Viktor knew he was a damn good skater, one of the best, proven time and time again, but. There was something, an ephemeral thing that only lasted the short span Yuuri was on the ice that made Viktor want to capture it in his hands if only to have bit more time to understand what it was, exactly.

The music ended as Yuuri stilled into his finishing pose, one hand extended out as if waiting for an imaginary partner to reach out and join him.

The man looked up, black hair pushed back and without his glasses, and squinted, looking directly at Yuri and Viktor but not really seeing them. Taking pity on the blind skater, Viktor left the observer’s box and made his way to the side wall of the rink nearest to Katsuki.

“Katsuki!” Viktor called out, “Your mother said we could find you here.”

“Viktor?” Yuuri seemed confused, “Is that you?”

The older man’s heart stuttered; he couldn’t remember when the last time Yuuri hadn’t referred to him scathingly by his surname.

Viktor spread his arms wide, “The one and only.”

Yurio mumbled something rude about his mentor in Russian, to low for Viktor to make out.

“Sorry, I can’t really see right now.” Yuuri apologized as he stopped in front of the pair, “I’m not sure where I left my glasses.”

Spotting them laying on a small white table that was also had Katsuki’s phone on it, Viktor picked the frames up. He unfolded them, and unlike a normal human being who would have handed them over, Viktor gently placed them on Yuuri’s face himself.

“There you go.” Viktor smiled crookedly, flushing when he took in Yuuri’s stunned expression.

Yuuri seemed to be blushing too, “Uh, thank you.”

The two eyed one another for a few moments, like two wary animals trying to figure out how much a threat the other was. There was a bead of sweat rolling down Yuuri’s temple and his hands were clutching the wall, knuckles whitened with their strain.

“Are you two weirdos just going to stand around staring at each other all day or are we going to actually start planning this thing.” Yurio bit out, “I didn’t fly all the way here just to do nothing; I could’ve done that in Russia.”

_As if you didn’t beg me to take you so you could drool over your idol,_ Viktor internally scoffed.

Yuuri rubbed at his neck, no longer making eye contact, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to meet you both.”

“What were you working on?” Viktor asked, nodding toward the ice.

Yuuri shrugged, “It’s a program I’m planning for Worlds actually.”

The World Championships would be beginning a few months after their exhibition was set to end; Viktor would also be competing in it, his own routine nearly complete.

As if just remembering this, that the two were rivals and that their careers centered on that fact, Katsuki’s demeanor changed. He crossed his arms against his chest, the softness in his chestnut eyes hardening as his lips pressed in a thin line.

“And that’s the only preview you’ll be getting,” Katsuki remarked, “I wouldn’t want you getting so discouraged that you don’t even bother showing; where’d the fun in that be?”

Viktor tightened his jaw, all the reasons he hated Katsuki flooding back to him and replacing any other feeling.

“Don’t worry,” Viktor smiled, saccharine, “I’ve been working on something that will make your little program look like child’s play.”

“Is that so?” Katsuki huffed a laugh.

“Yep! But don’t worry, I’m sure the loss won’t totally crush any and all of your hopes or dreams.”

“Well, you would know, wouldn’t you, Nikiforov?” Yuuri paused, pretending to think, “How is your silver medal, by the way?”

“Oh fine,” Viktor distractedly picked at a piece of lint, “Kept company by all my other gold medals, you know, like the one I received at the Olympics.”

That got a visible rise out of Katsuki, who had been controversially passed over by the Japanese Olympic figure skating team at the previous winter games. In the press Katsuki had acted like it was fine, but everyone knew how much it bothered him, especially considering Viktor competed with the Russian team, going on to win the gold medal even.

Katsuki opened his mouth to retort when Yurio harshly kicked the barrier.

“Hey idiots!” he yelled, “You can trade stupid insults on your own time! You have, what, three weeks to put this thing together and five to train? You’re wasting time and not to mention getting on my nerves.”

Both men appraised one another, Yuri’s words taking affect. He was right; they didn’t have time to bicker and rehash old fights. It was time to put petty differences aside and work together. Viktor knew this, but was still surprised to see Katsuki offer his hand out, waiting for him to shake it.

“I know we’ve never gotten along, Nikiforov, but this is more important than either of us individually,” Katsuki supplied, “Let’s just try to give each other and the other skaters our absolute bests. Our sport deserves that at least, wouldn’t you agree?”

And Yuuri had him, because if there wasn’t anything Viktor held in higher regard than the sport he loved and dedicated nearly his entire life to. Viktor Nikiforov was many things, good and bad, but above all he was hard working, dedicated and meticulous—especially when it came to figure skating.

He grasped the other man’s hand in his, shaking firmly and nodding his agreement.

Yurio smiled wolfishly, appreciating his work, “Good, now that you two are done with your pissing contest I want to tell you geezers exactly how my program for this thing is going to look.”

The rest of the morning and afternoon was spent with Viktor and Yuuri creating the foundational outline of their exhibition tour, as Yuri tried to dictate his opinions on the matter, not-so-secretly trying to give himself the best theme and order placement.

Viktor and Yuuri had received in a follow-up email from the ISU the lists of places they’d be traveling to and skaters that would be featuring in the tour. They would be visiting three continents, starting in North America, and then moving on to Asia before finishing up in Europe. The cities ranged from New York to Mexico City, Moscow, Seoul, Paris, Rome and finishing in Barcelona, with several more crammed in between.

Aside from Yuuri, Yurio, and himself, there were to be nine other skaters, all top tier: Christophe, Otabek, Phichit, JJ (“ _Why is he coming?”_  Yurio had fumed at hearing the Canadian skater’s name, _“He’s part of the reason we have to even do this stupid thing!_ ”), Michele, Guang Hong, Leo, Emil and Seung-gil.

“This is a bit overwhelming,” Yuuri nervously chuckled.

“I get what you mean,” Viktor rubbed at his eyes, the words on the papers in front of him starting to swim and blur, “there’s so many skaters and places.”

 “Besides, I’m sure everyone is going to have a problem with something,” Yuuri stifled a yawn.

Figure skaters, while often kind, were notoriously dramatic and opinionated, not to mention pretty possessive over how and what they skated.

“Yes, but it’s also good to keep in mind that we won’t be able to please them all.” Viktor shrugged, “At a certain point they’ll just have to accept our decisions.”

“I guess,” Yuuri seemed unconvinced.

For someone who had won as many competitions and medals—and gold ones at that—as Yuuri had, it was surprising to Viktor to see the lack of confidence the other skater held.

“Can we go eat?” Yurio whined, “I haven’t eaten at all today because dumbass over there didn’t let us stop for breakfast before our flight.”

Viktor huffed a laugh, “And that is because you overslept and it would’ve made us miss our plane. Besides, Yurio, you could’ve eaten on the flight.”

“Tch,” Yuri’s face scrunched in disgust, “Airplane food is gross.”

Yuuri spoke then, “Well, if you guys want we can pack up here and head over to the onsen to eat?”

Viktor nodded and Yuri shrugged, a ringing endorsement coming from him.

The three gathered their things, Yuuri shouldering his gear bag, Viktor carrying their binder full of plans, while Yurio put away the skates he had borrowed for the afternoon from the rink, and made their trek back to Yuuri’s place. It was still in the dead of winter so it was fairly chilly, Yuuri burrowing deeper into his scarf.

“Aren’t the two of you cold?” Yuuri asked, eyeing Viktor’s and Yuri’s thin outerwear skeptically.

They both looked at one another before bursting into laughter.

“Did he—“

“I don’t think I’ve ever been asked—“

“I can’t believe—“

The two continued on in half sentences choked by more hysterics.

Yuuri seemed a mixture of confusion and embarrassment, “I don’t get it.”

“We’re Russian.” They replied simultaneously.

“Oh.” Yuuri’s eyes widened in understanding, “Right.”

“It’s, what, like five degrees right now?” Viktor asked, “In St. Petersburg it’s at least six below. So, no Yuuri, we’re fine. It was sweet of you to ask, though.”

The thin strip of skin that was visible between his scarf and knit cap was doused in a crimson blush. Viktor distantly mused on the fact he enjoyed seeing Yuuri turn all sorts of red.

“Well, I don’t want to assume things based on stereotypes.” Yuuri finally stated, “I know I hate it when the other competitors do it to me.”

Viktor nodded his head, conceding, “True, that is bothersome.”

Yurio snorted, his voice taking on an American accent, “Excuse me, Mr. Plisetsky can you confirm that Russian figure skating is trying to spread communism?”

Viktor laughed, loud and sharp, before mimicking his own American accent, “Mr. Nikiforov, is it true that all the Russian skaters eat nothing but a strict diet of vodka and dried meat?”

“Seriously?” Yuuri shoved his hand into his pocket, “That’s awful, I’m sorry.”

“Nah, I mean, it’s mostly funny.” Yurio offered, “Like, what human being can survive off of vodka and dried meat, let alone an athlete.”

“True, and how would one spread communism via figure skating?” Viktor was genuinely interested in the process of thought behind the offensive notion, “Would we just dress up as Lenin for our programs? Marx maybe?”

Yurio snorted and rolled his eyes, “Yeah, as if it hadn’t nearly destroyed the country. Americans are so stupid.”

“Yes,” Viktor’s face a faux-solemn mask, “But they do have some amazing food.”

Yuri let out an irritated noise as the trio climbed the steps to the onsen, “How can you say that? All you ever eat is the frozen crap you force Yakov to bring back from the stores.”

“Ah,” Viktor placed a hand to his heart, remembering a particularly delicious meal, “But somehow knowing how awful they are makes them so good.”

Yuuri shook his head with a smile, but said nothing as they divested themselves of their coats, or in his case, a coat, scarf, pair of gloves, a hat, and a sweater.

“Oh good, you’re all back!” An older Japanese man stuck his out of the doorway that led into the dining area, “Dinner’s finished and your mom made your favorite.”

Yuuri seemed pleased although a bit flustered, “Dad, she can’t keep making it—I’ll blow up like a balloon!”

“You were such a fat little kid, Yuuri, it was so cute!” His father said, a reminiscent look on his face, “Besides, you try telling your mother she’s not allowed to make her gold-medalist son his favorite dish.”

Yuuri stated with fond exasperation, “Yes, but we already had three different celebration dinners.”

“Well this one isn’t really for you,” His father relented, “It’s for your guests!”

“What is it?” Viktor asked.

“It’s my favorite meal,” Yuuri explained, “Whenever I won a competition my mom would make it as a reward, since I couldn’t eat them often…”

“Because you’d turn into a little piggy?” Yuri snickered.

Yuuri rubbed at his neck, wincing, “Well, yeah.”

“But what is it?” Viktor pressed.

“Oh, it’s, hm.” Yuuri paused, “I think the closest English translation would be, a pork cutlet bowl? We call them katsudon though.”

Viktor considered before smiling, “I don’t think I’m familiar with it but I’m sure it’ll be good.”

“At this point I’m so hungry I’d eat dog food.” Yurio complained, stomping into the eating area.

“I’m sorry, about Yuri,” Viktor winced watching the teenager where he slumped at the low-level table, scrolling through his phone.

“I mean, he’s not known as the Russian punk for nothing, right?” Yuuri laughed, “Besides, Mari was a million times worse as a teenager.”

“Mari?”

Yuuri clarified, “My older sister, she runs this place with my parents. Was also a bit of a wild child growing up.”

“What about you?” Viktor prompted, coming to sit at the other side of the table.

“Huh?”

Viktor held his chin in his hand, “Were you a rebellious child?”

“Me?” Yuuri squeaked, “Oh, uh, no. Definitely not.”

“Hm. I’m not sure I believe that.”

“What!? Why?” Yuuri exclaimed, obviously confused.

“I’ve seen the sort of arguments you’ve gotten into with your previous coach. I’m guessing you have a pretty stubborn streak.” He remarked, a smile dancing on his face.

“Oh, that.” Yuuri looked embarrassed, “I have been told that I’m a bit…passionate when it comes to skating. So I guess any rebelling was because of that.”

“That’s good though, it’s important to be passionate about what you do.” Viktor pointed out, “I mean, it’s obviously paid off.”

Yuuri flushed but this time he seemed pleased rather than self-conscious, “Thank you. Although, I’m not sure Ciao Ciao would be as forgiving.”

Viktor was curious, “What were your fights about? Celestino always seemed pretty laidback to me.”

“I…would put more jumps in my programs, and usually would save them for the second half.” Yuuri laughed, “He would be so mad because he’d tell me not to do it, but I would anyways, and he couldn’t even stay angry because it helped boost my scores.”

“I’ve had the exact same arguments with Yakov, our coach.”

The two continued bonding over irritating their coaches, Yurio chiming in a few times with his own anecdotes. Twenty minutes had passed, and Viktor didn’t curse Katsuki’s existence once. Come to think of it, ever since their tentative truce, Viktor and Yuuri had been getting along amazingly well.  It was unsettling to say the least.

“Sorry for the wait,” a girl popped out, of the kitchen carrying three bowls, her voice monotone.

“Mari, where’s my bowl?” Yuuri asked, noticing that only Yuri, Viktor, and herself had been served.

The girl, Mari, rolled her eyes, “You know where the kitchen is; I’m not your servant, Yuuri.”

Yuuri huffed but got up to go and retrieve his own food, mumbling something in Japanese.

“I heard that!” Mari called after her younger brother.

Viktor smiled, but felt a pang of longing; he had grown up an only child and had always envied those who didn’t. Worse, he had spent a majority of his year at odds with his peers and fellow skaters, seen as someone to beat or surpass, but never really a friend. Viktor often told himself that his loneliness bred strength, although it started to sound hollow to his ears as of late.

“You’re Viktor then?”

The man snapped his head up, “Yes, that’s me.”

She seemed to be studying him, her large brown eyes just as disconcerting as her brother’s. After a few minutes he was about to say something when she spoke first.

“You look different than in your posters.” Mari accused.

Viktor laughed, a sharp single note of surprise, “I wasn’t aware you were a fan.”

She snorted at that, “I’m not. That was always more of Yuuri’s thing; I mean, he had to have at least a dozen of those stupid posters the teen magazines always had of you.”

“No way.” Yuri interrupted, disbelief coloring his tone.

Mari shrugged as if she couldn’t care less, “It’s true. I think he took them all down after his first GP final, though, I think he kept them in a box somewhere.”

“Hey Viktor, didn’t you meet Katsuki at his first GPF?” Yuri goaded, knowing full-well the whole torrid story.

Viktor ignored the teenager, attention all on Mari, “Was Yuuri a fan of mine, before that?”

She nodded, “Oh yeah, I’m pretty sure he even had a fan Twitter account dedicated to you.”

Viktor’s jaw dropped, shocked.

“Yeah, you should’ve seen the meltdown he had when you cut your hair off.” She snorted, her voice dipping to impersonate her brother, “’ _How could he, Mari? It was so beautiful. Why does everything beautiful die?!’_ ”

Viktor was stunned. When he had met Yuuri all those years ago, he was certain the man had despised him, for whatever reason. Although, looking back, their first encounter would match more with what Mari had said; when Yuuri had stumbled into Viktor, shiny-eyed and newly eighteen, he had seemed just as in awe as any of Viktor’s other fans. Viktor had been seriously impressed with Yuuri’s programs and was excited to be skating against someone who would actually prove to be a challenge for the Russian.

The question then was what had changed, between that and the unfortunate banquet encounter. What had Viktor said or done that had been so terrible that it caused Yuuri to become so cold and cruel to him?

The sad truth of the matter was that when he stopped to consider it, it could have been anything in all honesty. People often built Viktor up as something he could never hope of being, and when he was himself—messy, loud, clingy, stupid Viktor—people were disappointed and they left.

So the likely answer was this; Yuuri, after all his searing into Viktor’s soul with those bottomless brown eyes, had seen what everyone else was prone to see: that this man, while worth gold on the ice, was worth little else when off it.

“Sorry for taking so long!” Yuuri sat down, his own bowl placed in front of him on the table, ripping Viktor from his depressing thought.

Yuuri’s parents came to sit at the last available spots.

“It’s no problem,” Viktor said weakly.

Yuuri smiled and just sort of stared at him. In fact, the whole Katsuki family was watching him and Yuri.

“What?”

“We want to see how you like the food, dear.” Hiroko explained.

For Yuri that was the only permission he needed to start engulfing his meal, a stream of pleased noises making their way out between each mouthful.

Viktor shrugged and dug his own fork in and swallowed a large bite. He felt his eyes widen as the variety of flavors and textures hit his palate.

“Oh my god, Yuuri,” Viktor moaned after swallowing the food, “This is fantastic!”

Yuuri beamed, his cheeks flushed with joy, “I’m glad you guys like it so much.”

The rest of them began eating, the meal punctuated with Yuuri’s parents questioning him and Yurio about their lives in Russia. It felt strange, to not have the people he was speaking to already know everything about him and his life. More so, none of them really had expectations as to who Viktor was supposed to be. So, maybe not strange as much as nice and freeing.

Viktor looked over at Yuuri, noting how his head was thrown back, laughing at something rude Yurio had growled at Mari after she commented that he looked like one of the guys in her favorite group, and his mouth partially full of rice and pork. His hair was still slicked back from him practicing earlier but his glasses softened the look somehow.

A deep pull manifested itself beneath Viktor’s sternum that felt heavy and warm all at once. The heat traveled before finally settling in his cheeks, a faint blush. It felt like finishing a program he knew would earn him gold, of being on the precipice of something great.

Looking back, Viktor would pinpoint this moment, this feeling as the creation of a beautiful monster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also, pls come pester me at my tumblr to motivate me to write more: poppunkdickgrayson.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> is this good? who knows  
> yuuri's song: the greatest by sia (i.e. the Most yuuri song)
> 
> i do have a tumblr if y'all want shout hc w/ me: poppunkdickgrayson.tumblr.com


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